


S'mores

by hannibalnuxvoxmica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drunk s'more making, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, S'mores, it got away from me, so many feelings, so much fluff oh god, this is more emotional than I expected it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalnuxvoxmica/pseuds/hannibalnuxvoxmica
Summary: Will makes a s'more for Hannibal after learning he has never eaten one. FEELINGS ENSUE.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magical_Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Destiny/gifts).



> This was written for my lovely friend, Magical_Destiny, who helped me with the idea and supported me through the process. I hope you enjoy!

“You’re ruining it.”

“I’m not ruining it! Just watch.”

“It’s going to burn.”

“It won’t burn. I know what I’m doing.”

“The last one burnt.”

Their evening had turned from dinner to drinking, from drinking to conversation, and from conversation to…this. Tipsy attempts at marshmallow roasting by use of their stove. And Hannibal was, despite his criticisms, enjoying himself immensely.

“This can’t be the traditional method.”

“Well, usually there’s a fire, and usually we’re outside…But this will work fine.”

Will twirls the marshmallow above the small fire, the yellow flames ribboning up from the stove, grazing its surface. Drunk, he finds it ridiculous, absolutely absurd, that Hannibal has never once eaten a s’more in his life. As he twists the skewer between his fingers,  rotating to expose the other side, he wonders momentarily if he’ll find as ridiculous sober...

“You’ve burned it again.”

“Dammit!”

Hannibal’s laugh fills the room, golden and bright. Just like the glow rising in Will’s cheeks as he smiles. He reloads the end of his skewer, unsteady fingers securing the marshmallow in place before placing it above the fire yet again, this time with renewed determination.

They had spoken of the change of season, and while the fireplace crackled in the background and the whiskey warmed in their bellies, what they spoke of shifted from spring, to autumn, to winter, and eventually to one of the more happy memories from Will’s childhood; camping in old, ruddy tents with his father and eating s’mores for dinner in the crisp night air.

It didn’t matter to him then if the marshmallow burnt or not.

The salvageable things from his childhood, the softer things that could be stood to look at, had been retrieved and fossilized, and possibly, if Will was honest, glossed a bit and made to shine. There was plenty he carried on his back, but these he cradled in his arms, brought to life around him.

The smell of pine and motor oil. Cheap whiskey. Starlight, and the open window through which the cold breeze rustles the curtains early in the morning. The simplistic refuge of handiwork, of tangible problems with tangible solutions. His aptitude for both solitude and silence, the dread and calm of it, that for so long he told himself was an appreciation.

Home cooked meals, woolen blankets, and canine companions. The sunlight dancing on the windowsill just above his bed.

It didn’t matter to him then if the marshmallow burnt or not.

But it matters to him now.

Will pulls away from the flames, successful. He slides the marshmallow on top of the slab of chocolate, between the blocks of graham cracker, and then squashes it together, its white innards spilling out the sides.

_S’mores, ruddy old tents, and the crisp night air._

He turns around in offering, and Hannibal’s cocked eyebrow matches his skeptical grin.

“Eat,” Will commands.

“Is there a dignified way to go about this?”

Will shakes his head. “But that’s the fun of it. Try it.”

Hannibal meets his gaze, red cheeked and smiling, and takes the plate from Will.

_Pine and motor oil and cheap whiskey._

Hannibal inspects it like a fussy cat who has been offered an inadequate meal. And Will watches impatiently, amused.

“Just try it!” he says with a laugh. Hannibal picks up his concoction using the least amount of fingers possible, forcing a sigh from Will, and finally he takes a bite.

_Home cooked meals, woolen blankets, and canine companions._

Melted chocolate and bits of marshmallow cling to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth as he pulls away, and as he goes to wipe it away Will kisses him.

_The sunlight glittering on the windowsill just above his bed._

The part of his lips while he sleeps. The sleepy, heavy sigh just before he wakes.

Long walks and dinners.

The weight of his arm slung over him. The warmth of him pressed against Will every night.

Every morning.

The ground gives way beneath him and the room disappears. The atmosphere bends only for them. Only for the precious things Will cradles in his arms. Protected. Safe.

Hannibal.

**Author's Note:**

> I NEVER listen to music while writing, as it usually breaks my concentration completely, but while writing this I listened to this song (on repeat). I partially blame how emotional this became on this song:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNwgOkl5nRY
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought in the comments below!
> 
> [Come cry with me about Hannigram](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hannibalnuxvomica)


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